


created joy at the tips of her fingers

by ktlsyrtis



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Baking Class AU, Berena Secret Santa, Christmas Fluff, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-25 05:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis/pseuds/ktlsyrtis
Summary: After word reaches the CEO's office that all is not well on AAU, Henrik Hanssen decides the best course of action is to arrange a team building exercise for the ward's constantly at odds co-leads. Who knew that baking classes were an NHS approved method of building effective working relationships?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SuperSilliness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSilliness/gifts).



> Written for SuperSilliness/thequietculchie who gave the prompt _baking classes AU_ as a part of Berena Secret Santa 2018. I hope this lives up to expectations!

_This was why she enjoyed baking. A good dessert could make her feel like she'd created joy at the tips of her fingers._   
_― Marissa Meyer_   


\---

“You _must_ be kidding.”

Serena looks down at the glossy brochure on the surface of the desk as if it’s a venomous snake on the verge of striking.

“I’m assure you, Ms Campbell, I’m quite serious.” Henrik peers at her over steepled fingers, eyes sharp and all knowing. “You made clear your concerns about Ms Wolfe and her presence on AAU when she was hired, but I had hoped you would have found a more amicable working relationship by now.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Serena leans back in her chair, a little too casual. “Things are perfectly fine on AAU,” she says blandly, ignoring the incredulous twitch of Henrik’s eyebrow.

“All reports from your team to the contrary.” He pushes onward despite the dangerous thinning of Serena’s lips. “Ms Wolfe is here to support you, not usurp you, but that only works if you allow it.”

She stops herself from rolling her eyes. Barely. “Still, Henrik. _Baking?_ ” she asks, leveling another murderous glare at the unassuming brochure with the smiling people surrounding a tiered cake on the cover.

“Baking, like medicine, requires a good eye for details and a well-meaning heart. Also, this is a requirement, not a request.” Her automatic protest stalls at his pointed gaze over top of his glasses. “Cover has already arranged for you both. I trust you’ll pass the information along to Ms Wolfe?” A long pause follows, and Henrik picks up a folder from his desk to peruse the contents.

Clearly dismissed, Serena leaves his office with the brochure in hand, feeling like a schoolgirl who’s been dressed down by the headmaster. She wonders who he’s been talking to. Fletch, most likely, never one to keep quiet when there’s a bit of gossip to be shared. _Maybe it’s time for a full accounting of AAU’s supplies_ , she thinks a little snidely, stabbing her thumb against the lift call button.

_‘Amicable working relationship.’ Ridiculous._ It’s not like things are _that_ bad between her and Bernie. Yes, they’ve had some spirited disagreements about patient care, but Serena will be damned if she’s going to let some stubborn Major swoop in and take over the ward she’s put so much of herself into running. 

The thought sits heavily in her stomach, something uncomfortably close to jealousy coiling there. AAU has always been a bit of a family, made up of castaways and strays, and ever since Bernie breezed in Serena feels like the stern matron to her cool auntie, always the disciplinarian. Every time she sees Bernie leaning against the nurse’s station in her pale blue scrubs chatting and laughing with Fletch and Raf, or overhears Morven gushing about something amazing Ms Wolfe did in surgery, she feels her grip tighten, her already slim patience with Bernie’s rule breaking nature thinning even more.

Bernie’s all ready in their office when Serena arrives, miraculously working on her stack of overdue paperwork. There’s a welcoming smile on her lips, but all Serena can see is the half-eaten apple next to her computer, the crumpled crisp wrappers that are migrating across the dividing line between the chaos of Bernie’s desk and the efficient order of Serena’s own. Bernie follows her gaze and she seems to shrink in on herself a little, muttering an apology as she starts gathering up refuse and shoving it in the bin.

Serena’s drops the brochure on top of Bernie’s keyboard as she walks past, dropping into her chair with a huff. 

“Uh, what’s this, then?” The brochure held loosely in her fingers, Bernie’s eyebrows are pulled down in a befuddled frown. The thought that she looks like some sort of adorable golden retriever floats across Serena’s mind, and she ruthlessly dismisses it.

“Henrik Hanssen’s idea of a joke,” Serena mutters, fingers clacking harder than necessary on her keyboard as she enters in her password. “Apparently, it’s what passes for ‘teambuilding’ in the NHS these days. Though I don’t recall any scholarly readings on the transformative power of baked goods.” 

Serena leans back in her chair with a sigh, hand moving to play with the pendant at the base of her throat. A part of her rankles at the idea that any of this is necessary, even more so as the stubborn little voice at the back of her mind reminds her that it’s largely her own fault. She wishes it weren’t. Territoriality aside, she’s spent her whole career looking for a relationship with a woman who is her equal, someone who truly understands the struggles of their careers, who could have her back. At the end of the day, she wants a friend. 

A part of her hoped that Bernie could be that friend. That they could be partners, a united front against whatever new challenge AAU throws their way. 

That doesn’t seem like an option now.

It’s just that she always feels so off kilter with Bernie, fluttery and anxious, constantly worried that she’s not enough, that she doesn’t measure up. It’s that unease that makes her responses sharp, her judgements harsh, and each time she opens her mouth she sees Bernie retreat a little more. And now knowing that others see it, have been talking about her, about them, makes Serena shore up her already fortified defenses, shielding herself from the inevitable judgement and humiliation that has been part and parcel of being a woman in charge.

“We’ve both been rostered off for the next four days in order to attend, as if we have nothing else in the world to do with our time,” Serena says, unable to keep the acid bite from her words.

Bernie glances up through her ridiculous fringe ( _Really, does she just cut it herself?_ ), gives a bit of a shrug. “Maybe it’ll be fun?”

The simple question feel like a judgment, like this is just another thing that Serena is already failing at. “And here I thought it was more important for us to focus on the work of saving lives. But as long as we’re having _fun_ , I suppose.” Some of the sparkle goes out of Bernie’s eyes, her shoulders slumping, and that uncomfortable feeling twists again in Serena’s gut. Grabbing the nearest folder, she makes to go back out on the ward, pausing with her hand on the door handle when Bernie speaks up again.

“I can drive us both, if you’d like.”

Serena bites back a mirthless chuckle. “Isn’t it enough we have to bake together?” she asks, sweeping out the door before Bernie can reply.

\---

The next day dawns clear and bright, entirely contrary to Serena’s increasingly dark mood as she drives to the venue. She’d given herself a pep talk at home, almost convinced herself that getting to know Bernie better will actually be a good thing. Worse comes to worst, at least she’ll have baked goods to bring home for herself and Jason. 

Once in the isolation of her car, her mind can’t seem to settle, spins through every frustrating, embarrassing moment in recent memory. The thoughts and feelings amplify until she finds herself having theoretical arguments with Bernie in her head, filling in both of their responses to situations that have never happened, and by the time she pulls into the car park, she’s practically vibrating with impotent frustration. 

Bernie has managed to arrive before her, surprising considering her frequent inability to get to her shift on time. She’s lounging outside the door, long legs stretched out in front of her, one hand shoved deep in her pocket as she takes a drag off her cigarette. The smoke wreaths her golden hair when she exhales, the sunlight hitting just right, making her practically glow.

Grabbing her bag, Serena slams the door hard enough that Jason would reprimand her were he here, feels impossibly frumpy in the same clothes she wears to work day in and day out. She walks quickly up to the building, doesn’t even break pace when Bernie opens her mouth to say hello, pushes through the glass doors before she’s can make a sound.

A large poster of Nadiya Hussain holding a tray of gorgeous iced biscuits greets her, _Cook Like a Bake Off Winner_ emblazoned across the bottom. The space is set up much like the familiar tent, each baking station already set up with ingredients and a shiny, brightly colored mixer. Most of the stations are already taken by a small group of other women and one man, many of them chatting and laughing, making introductions. Serena makes her way to a bench in the back, thinks maybe if she’s far enough away from the instructor she can at least keep an eye on her email today.

Bernie breezes in a few moments later, takes the bench to Serena’s left. She doesn’t make another attempt at a greeting, and Serena’s morning cup of coffee swirls uncomfortably inside her.

“Good morning, bakers!” A woman who can’t be much older than Elinor sweeps into the room, a thick braid of hair swirled in vivid blues and purples hanging over her shoulder. “I’m Lucy and I’ll be instructing you for the next four days in how to _Cook Like a Bake Off Winner_.”

Lucy is _unbearably_ perky, and Serena has to stop herself from rolling her eyes as she extolls the joys of baking, claims that the stress relief benefits can make them happier people. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Bernie bouncing a little on her feet, poking at the meticulously arranged canisters of ingredients like a curious child. By the time they get started, she’s managed to somehow already get flour on herself, soft white smudges on her black denims.

They’re starting the class with biscuits, easing into the methods and tricks they’ll be learning in the class. 

Serena tries to focus on her own station. She’s always been of the belief that anything worth doing is worth doing well. The recipes are clear and she follows them methodically, performing each step to the letter. Bernie, as with everything else, seems to disagree, and Serena has to bite her tongue to keep from commenting when she notices Bernie not leveling her flour measure, shaking in spices directly from the jars. 

A yelp draws her attention from the chocolate she’s tempering for her millionaire’s shortbread, and she looks over in time to see Bernie’s caramel bubbling over the pan, sizzling on the worktop as Bernie fumbles to turn down the heat.

“It’s nice to see that you don’t just save your mess for our office,” Serena snipes without thinking, feels immediately guilty when Bernie’s head snaps up, something almost wounded in her wide dark eyes. Her face floods with heat, and she turns back to her chocolate, blames it on the warmth of so many people baking in one room.

Lucy seems to be a bit enamoured of the Major, hovering around her station and offering words of encouragement, the two of them standing practically shoulder to shoulder. The young woman reaches across, wrapping her hand around Bernie’s where it rests on the handle of a spoon, showing her the proper stirring motion. The brandy snap Serena is easing off the spoon handle crumbles in her too tight grip, delicate crumbs sticking to her skin.

“Very nice, Serena,” she says as she walks by. “But you should try and relax, have a little fun with your baking. Bakes always taste better when they’re infused with a bit of joy.”

“I _am_ relaxed,” Serena says, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. From behind Lucy she hears a strangled snort of laughter, and when she looks over she can see Bernie biting her bottom lip, mirth dancing in her eyes.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Bernie holds her hands up in surrender at Serena’s glare, goes back to the work of smearing her too thick chocolate over her shortbread.

The last recipe of the day is for spiced ginger biscuits, topped with lacy white icing. Serena can tell just by the smell that Bernie has added _far_ more spice than the recipe requires, the air around them redolent with ginger and cloves. She gets her biscuits, a series of ragged, uneven shapes, into the oven first while Serena is still bent over with a ruler and a paring knife, dividing her thinly rolled dough into exact squares. 

There’s a bit of downtime as the biscuits bake. Serena pulls out her phone, scrolling through emails while Bernie steps outside for a fag, trying to look busy enough to avoid conversation with Rodney, the lone gentleman in the class. It’s become increasingly clear as the day went on that he seeing the class as a way to find a date, taking any opportunity to sidle up to the women of the class and make slightly leering conversation.

“Damn!”

Serena looks up from the reply she’s typing to Henrik in time to see Bernie pulling her tray from the oven. There’s a slight haze in the air and even from her bench Serena can see the biscuits have caught around the edges, some far worse than others.

Bernie slides the tray onto the bench, eschewing the ergonomic spatula that rests beside her, instead plucking the biscuits straight from the tray with her bare fingers, hissing a bit at the heat. Serena shakes her head as biscuit after biscuit drops onto the cooling rack with a clatter, turning away when her timer chimes.

The biscuits on Serena’s tray are lovely, all the same size and an even golden brown, and she can’t help but feel a certain sense of accomplishment as she carefully slides them off to cool. She’s never been much of a baker, always focused more on medicine and surgery than the domestic arts. Oh she tried, early on in her marriage to Edward, her mother’s admonishments about her duties as a wife ringing in her ears, but those attempts quickly dwindled to nothing under the pressures of ward rotations, nappy changes, and an increasingly distant husband. Once her marriage ended time was even more precious, and baking never came close to cracking the top ten list of things that deserved her energy. She quickly learned to repackage biscuits from M&S into a tin of her own to send along with Elinor for treat day at school, thinks they’re better than anything she could do anyway.

She meticulously pipes royal icing onto her cooled biscuits, trying to replicate the intricate lace pattern printed out as a template. They’re not all as perfect as she’d like, but her skills as a surgeon hold her in good stead, hands nimble and controlled as they grow more comfortable with the unfamiliar movements.

When they’re all finished decorating, they bring their biscuits up to the front, just like the technical challenges they’ve all seen on television. Unlike proper _Bake Off_ , this isn’t anonymous, all of the students crowding around to _ooh_ and _ahh_ over each others work.

And it’s a good thing, because there’s no hiding which biscuits are Bernie’s; haphazard geometrics topped with avant garde swirls and blotches of icing, most of which seem to have been placed to disguise where the darkest bits have been scraped off. She stands at the back of the group, hands deep in her pockets, eyes fixed on her pink oxfords.

“Well done, everyone!” Lucy bestows a wide smile on them all. “You’ve all made incredible progress in just a day. Just look at your beautiful biscuits!” The class murmurs a bit, people turning to congratulate one another. “But, as we know, looks are only part of the challenge. What _really_ matters is how they taste.”

Biscuits from each tray are cut into bite sized pieces, giving everyone the opportunity to taste along with Lucy as she evaluates the outcome, acting as Paul Hollywood’s bubbly stand in. 

There’s something to critique for each of them, whether taste, texture, or degree of doneness. Rodney has managed to swap his sugar for salt, making his the only ones that are truly inedible. Lucy declares Serena’s biscuits technically perfect, but a bit bland.

“They’re almost _too_ perfect, like something you’d buy at a store when you wanted to please everyone by not making a fuss. Your icing work is gorgeous, though.” Serena’s happy enough with that, doesn’t see the problem with making something everyone would like.

Bernie’s are last, slid to the far end of the bench as if she was hoping they’d somehow get overlooked. Serena nabs a piece that looks the least burnt out of the lot, hesitates a moment before carefully biting it in half.

Flavor explodes on her tongue, all spice and warmth, and she can feel her eyes go wide. It’s like taking a bite of Christmas, the flavors lingering and the buttery biscuit melts in her mouth. The rest of their classmates seem equally stunned, and Bernie looks between them, cheeks pinking as she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear.

“That bad, then?” she jokes with a crooked grin.

“Bernie,” Lucy says, a breathiness in her voice that sets Serena’s teeth on edge. “These are _wonderful!_ I mean, obviously the bake could use a little work, but your flavors are amazing. And I love your deconstructed icing. Very modern.”

Bernie’s blush deepens as the class joins in praising her, and Serena thinks she sees Lucy wink at Bernie. The delicious biscuit turns to ash on her tongue, sits in her stomach like a stone. Spine straight she turns and walks back to her bench, starts packing up her biscuits, tossing them into the tin a little harder than she intends. She feels out of sorts, nebulous emotions making her chest tight, her movements jerky. _You know what this is_ , whispers the voice in the back of her mind, but she firmly ignores it.

Shoving the tin into her bag, she turns to leave, but is stopped in her tracks by Bernie, holding out a small plastic container.

“I know they aren’t very good and I’ll never get through all these myself. I thought maybe you’d like some extra for Jason?”

Some of Serena’s tension melts away, replaced by unexpected warmth. She hadn’t even realized Bernie knew about Jason, and a thread of shame that she doesn’t really know anything about Bernie’s life outside of the hospital worms through her.

“I don’t know if…” A flicker of disappointment crosses Bernie’s face, her retreat from yet another overture imminent. Serena changes tack, an unexpected desire to not disappoint Bernie filling her with urgency. “That would be lovely, Bernie, thank you. Jason does have quite the sweet tooth.” 

Bernie’s smile lightens her whole face, sets Serena’s heart flopping about a bit in her chest. She takes the box from Bernie, careful that their hands don’t touch, though she couldn’t say why.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in the morning?” Serena asks, wishes she didn’t sound so hopeful. Bernie just nods, that lopsided smile still quirking her thin mouth.

“Good night, Serena,” she says, voice softer than Serena’s ever heard it.

When she gets home that evening, Serena sets both of their biscuits out on a tray while the shepherd’s pie heats through, Bernie’s ragged ginger biscuits, gloopy shortbread and brandy snaps that look more like malformed crisps than anything nestled next to Serena’s precise cut shapes and perfectly curled straws.

Jason helps himself to a few before tea, chewing carefully, approaching the task like a scientific experiment.

“I like Ms Wolfe’s better,” he eventually declares, “but yours are much nicer looking, Auntie Serena.”

His judgment stings a bit, the fact that even in her own home Bernie Wolfe is preferred, but she’ll take the compliment for what it is. Snagging one of Bernie’s ginger biscuits, she takes a bite as she goes to take the pie from the oven.


	2. Chapter 2

Serena finds herself dreading class a bit the next day, can’t think why it’s scheduled for so long if it’s just a cake as Lucy said, but the timing quickly becomes apparent when she walks through the door.

There’s a gorgeous multi-tiered cake on the front bench, immaculately frosted and covered in sprays of flowers and colorful drops of meringue. It’s enormously intimidating, the thought that any of them would be able to recreate something like that almost laughable.

She’s clearly not the only one who thinks so. Bernie looks downright terrified as she settles her apron around her neck. Serena finds herself shooting her a reassuring smile. Twin spots of pink rise on her cheekbones, and Serena looks away, disconcerted by the sudden warmth in her chest.

“Before you all panic,” Lucy begins, once they’re all settled, “we’re not going to be doing a tiered cake. But, we _are_ going to be focusing on some decorating techniques that can easily be used on a larger bake.”

The class starts off simply enough, the room filling with the sweet scent of cocoa and strong coffee as they mix up their mocha sponges. If Serena’s hand is a bit heavy when adding the required splash of Kahlua, well, no one is the wiser.

While the sponges are baking, Lucy brings them all to the front to demonstrate how to make the sugar roses. They have to crowd close around her bench to get a view of the intricate steps. Bernie ends up just behind Serena, peering over her shoulder, pressed close enough that Serena can feel the warmth of her radiating against her back, Bernie’s breath stirring the short hairs at the nape of her neck. She finds her attention wandering, has to repeatedly force herself to focus on the movements of Lucy’s hands as she layers the delicate petals.

Returning to their stations, Serena starts the careful work of forming her petals; rolling the sugar paste nice and thin, cutting and shaping the individual pieces in a variety of sizes. There’s something satisfying about the work, the way the flower seems to bloom beneath her fingers surprisingly quickly, once she gets the trick of it.

A third third rose, this one larger and more elaborate than the last, is almost complete when she hears a frustrated huff, followed by a truncated curse. 

It seems Bernie isn’t finding the task quite as simple.

Serena’s first impulse is to speak up. Bernie’s technique is all wrong; the petals too flat, the pressure of her fingers too hard. The end result is closer to a deformed daisy than an elegant rose.

Her gaze must linger on Bernie’s hands a little too long. When she looks up, Bernie is looking back, a bit of a sheepish grin on her face. She gestures at the half finished flower in Serena’s hand.

“Impressive,” she says with a self deprecating shrug. “I guess it’s too delicate for trauma hands.” 

“You just need to get the rhythm of it,” Serena says, blushing a bit at the way Bernie’s eyes go wide. “I, uh, I could show you. If- if you like?”

The offers is as much a surprise to Serena as it is to Bernie. Opening her mouth as if to reply, Bernie seems to think better of it, inclines her head and moves down the bench a bit, making space.

Serena wipes her suddenly clammy palms on her apron, moving across the aisle to Bernie’s station, quickly assessing where she’s at.

“Your, uh, your sugar paste looks a good thickness,” Serena says, looking things over with a keen eye. “You want to give the petals a little more shape before forming the flower.”

Serena feels like she’s all thumbs, fumbling and nervous as she uses the modeling tools to give the petals shape and texture. Tells herself that it’s a natural reaction to having someone hovering over her shoulder, watching her every move; ruthlessly ignoring that snide little voice that reminds her it never seems to be a problem in surgical observations.

“Start with a little lump on the wire, then you’re going to carefully wrap the petals around it, building up the layers.” Bernie leans in to watch, close enough that Serena can smell a lingering mix of coffee and faint tobacco, something warm and spicy, like cloves. For one mad moment she imagines turning her head, burying her nose in Bernie’s blonde hair and breathing deep, wonders if it’s as soft as it always looks.

Bernie reaches across Serena to get another piece of wire, and she has to close her eyes, tries to rein in the thundering of her heart.

“Like this?” Bernie asks. They’re still pressed shoulder to shoulder and Serena can feel Bernie’s every movement beside her.

“That’s better,” she says, voice a little strained. “You need to be gentle with it, use just enough pressure to keep it together. And don’t be too rough with the petals, just sort of stroke them open.” Heat climbs the back of Serena’s neck, every word sounding like the worst kind of innuendo.

Bernie thanks her, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear with a soft smile, her eyes squinting a bit, and Serena finds herself staring a little. She manages to shake herself free, giving a quick “you’re welcome” before fleeing back to her own bench, unaccountably nervy and awkward.

Fortunately, the work they’re doing requires focus and Serena channels all her nervous energy into it. She finishes her flowers, pipes out the delicate kisses of meringue, inordinately pleased with the swirls of pale color that thread through them.

The afternoon disappears in a cloud of castor sugar, all of their aprons covered in smears of buttercream, the room largely silent, broken only by occasional curses and Lucy’s supportive instruction. Serena can’t help the sense of pride that fills her as she carefully arrays her flowers and meringues over her smooth, glossy buttercream.

“You’ve got an eye for that sort of thing.”

Serena jerks at the unexpected voice, the meringue in her hands clattering to the bench. She turns at glares, finds a repentant looking Bernie standing far closer than she anticipated, all of that anxious energy suddenly flooding back.

“Yes, well. Someone has to focus on the details, rather than just bulldozing through everything like some,” Serena says, and hates herself for the venom, wishes she knew better how to hold her tongue around Bernie. She starts to apologize, but Lucy calls for their attention, wants to go around a review everyone’s results.

Everyone is impressed with Serena’s cake, by far the closest to the example, but she hardly enjoys the accolades, still feels badly for her words.

As the others mill about, chitchatting as they pack up their cakes, Serena returns to Bernie’s station.

“It seems a shame to do all this work and not enjoy the fruits of our labor,” she says lightly, hates the wariness she can see in Bernie’s eyes. “Can I interest you in a slice?”

Bernie blinks a few times, clearly unsure how to respond. “Ah, you don’t have to do that. Yours is too beautiful to cut.”

“Nonsense,” Serena scoffs. “Cakes are made to be eaten. Come on.”

It was a good day, in the end, and Serena’s cake even lives up to Jason’s exacting standards. She finds herself looking forward to the next class, to spending more time with Bernie. Thinks it would be nice to make a friend, to have an equal.

She curls up on the sofa after Jason goes up to bed with a glass of shiraz and a trashy novel - her favorite relaxation routine. But she finds she can barely take in the words as she skims through the pages, can’t stop picturing the look of bliss on Bernie’s face when she bit into the rich cake, the little sound of enjoyment she made. Butterflies swoop in her stomach, uncertainty and excitement and things she doesn’t know how to name.

Shaking her head firmly to clear the cobwebs, Serena forces her wandering attention back on her book, not thoughts of silky hair and sparkling eyes.

\---

Serena glances out the door for what must be the twentieth time, Lucy nattering on about bread in the background. Bernie is late and Serena can’t help fretting, her mind spinning out more and more catastrophic reasons as the minutes tick away.

_She’s been called in for a trauma that they didn’t see fit to bother me with._

_She’s angry and didn’t want to see me._

_She’s been in a car wreck, is hurt somewhere on the side of the road._

She has to close her eyes against the last image, a sick feeling twisting her stomach. Without thinking, her hand slips into her pocket, fumbling for her phone.

“Sorry!” Bernie rushes through the door, messy blonde curls bouncing around her face, and the relief nearly takes Serena’s breath away. “Sorry I’m late.”

Bernie drops her bag by her station and edges around behind the group until she reaches Serena’s side.

“Everything all right?” Serena asks softly. She can see how tense Bernie is, her fingers drumming against her denim clad thigh, lips in a tight line.

“Fine,” she says, clearly not interested in explaining further.

Bread is the topic of the day, and they learn all about the importance of temperature when blooming their yeast, theories about proving times and methods, how to tell when bread is baked by sound.

Serena can’t shake her worry about Bernie, who’s been quiet even for her all morning, hardly saying a word as she assembles and proves her dough, brushing off Serena’s hesitant attempts at conversation. 

By the time Bernie starts pummeling her raised dough on the bench, Serena decides she’s had enough, sidling over to lean against the countertop next to Bernie.

“You’re not so much kneading bread as you are murdering it. What’s wrong?”

She thinks Bernie is going to dissemble again, prepares herself to push a little harder. Instead she slumps slightly, eyes focused where her hands are braced on the wood surface.

“My husband and I are-, well, I’m getting a divorce,” Bernie says, directs the words more to her bread dough than Serena. “It’s my choice, but last night Marcus asked me to move out and there were some things I needed to take care of this morning.” She finally looks up, and Serena can see the fine lines next to her eyes are a little deeper, the dark smudges of a sleepless night beneath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think it would interfere. I’ll-”

“Bernie.” Serena reaches out without thinking, resting her hand against Bernie’s arm. She feels the muscle briefly tense, then relax under her touch. “I completely understand. Don't forget I am a fully paid up member of the ‘embittered ex-wives club.’” That brings a smile to Bernie’s face that Serena can’t help but return, squeezing her arm a bit.

Serena gets them mugs of strong tea and they chat as their dough proves, Bernie telling her all about how what seemed amicable at first has turned ugly, the pain of coming home to find most of her belongings on the front walk, even her children turned against her.

“He's got them to write statements supporting his case,” Bernie says with a sigh, elbows leaned on the bench, sliding her mug back and forth between her hands restlessly. “Chapter and verse on my failings as a wife and mother."

Serena winces. “He’s really worked a number on them, hasn’t he?”

“You’re not kidding.”

“Have you talked to them about it?”

“No point.”

“Well you don’t want it turning into a stand-off.”

“Oh, I think we’re already there.” Bernie straightens, turns to lean beside Serena, close enough that their shoulders touch, a spot of warmth through the silk of Serena’s blouse. “I know I’m not mum of the year material-”

“None of us are,” Serena interjects, bumping against Bernie’s arm, gratified at the flicker of a smile she gets in return.

“But I was there for them as much as the job would allow.”

“You were at both births for a start.”

Bernie lets out a bark of a laugh, so ridiculously out of place Serena immediately wants to hear it again. “Funny.”

“They’re probably just upset about the divorce,” she reassures Bernie, remembering how Elinor had acted out when she and Edward first split. “It’ll settle down.”

“No, this feels like the beginning of something long and painful.” Serena wishes there were more she could do, all the animosity between them burning off like mist in the light of their shared experience. She wonders if maybe the friendship she’s so hoped for is still actually possible, wants that so much, so suddenly, it’s a little frightening. Sipping her lukewarm tea, she falls back on the safety of quips until she can find her equilibrium.

“That’s what I said on my wedding day.”

The second round of proving done, they go back to kneading their dough, Lucy circulating through the room to check on their progress.

“Harder, Serena!” Serena glares at her a bit, but Lucy is nonplussed. “You really need to work the dough in order to build the gluten and achieve the perfect texture. This is a great way to get out all your stress and anger.”

One of the other students calls her away as she continues, and Serena grumbles at her retreating back, pushing harder against the lump of dough in her hands.

“Here.” Bernie wanders over, hands covered in flour. “Mind if I show you?”

A week ago Serena would’ve scoffed at the offer. Hell, yesterday she’d have taken it as an offense. Now, she finds herself nodding, accepting the help that Bernie offers. It’s a small thing, but still is a weight off her shoulders, feels surprisingly good.

Right up until Bernie steps close behind her, reaches forward to cover Serena’s hands with her own. Suddenly there doesn’t seem to be enough air in the room, Serena’s heart fluttering behind her ribcage like a trapped sparrow.

“You need to let your leverage work for you,” Bernie says, close enough to Serena’s ear that she can feel warm, damp breath on the side of her neck. “Roll the dough back with your hands, then lean forward, putting your weight behind it.”

She guides Serena’s movements, their bodies rocking in time with the rhythm Bernie sets. Serena unconsciously holds her breath until she’s a bit dizzy. Bernie’s so close; her strong, lithe arms pressed against her own, that same warm scent of spice surrounding her, and the feeling of their bodies moving together has her head spinning.

“There, you’ve got it.”

Serena swallows hard against the dryness in her throat, tries for a normal tone. “Thank you.”

She turns her head and Bernie’s still right there, so close that her dark eyes seem to fill Serena’s vision. Her eyes drop to Bernie’s lips, the thought that she would barely need to move her head for them to be kissing floats through her mind unbidden, and she has to tear her gaze away before she does something monumentally stupid.

“You, uh, you’ve got a bit of flour…” Serena says, her voice sounding distant and strange. Bernie just stands very still, barely breathing as Serena raises a hand between them, brushing at the smudge of white powder along Bernie’s cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. 

_Her skin is so soft_ , Serena thinks, her thumb still moving though the flour is long gone. Bernie’s eyes flutter shut at the caress, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and her mouth parts slightly. The realization that she’s beautiful hits Serena out of nowhere, makes her breath catch in her chest. Bernie opens her eyes at the sound, gaze soft and inviting, and Serena opens her mouth, not sure exactly what she’s going to say.

“Okay, everyone! You should be on to forming your loaves now.”

Lucy’s voice shatters the atmosphere between them and they all but jump apart, fumbling as they turn back to their stations, and Serena’s hands are trembling as she shapes the silken dough into an oblong ball.

They hardly speak the rest of the afternoon, each of them magically finding somewhere else to be during the downtime while the bread bakes. Serena even risks letting herself be drawn into a conversation with Rodney, tracking Bernie out of the corner of her eye as he natters on about footie.

Still warm bread packed up and ready to go, they end up walking out together, the sun low in the sky as they make their way to their cars. The realization strikes Serena that Bernie doesn’t have a home to go back to tonight, said she’s staying in a lonely hotel room somewhere. She almost invites Bernie over for sandwiches, a chance to sample their fresh made bread but stops herself. Something about the idea feels dangerous, like standing on the edge of a cliff, terrifying and exhilarating.

Pausing at her car door, Serena leans forward on impulse, bussing her lips against Bernie’s cheek where the smudge of flour was. 

“Buck up, Major. At least at the end of it, you’ll be free of your ex-husband and can move on to bigger and better men.” The words stick in her throat like toffee.

Bernie considers her for a long moment, then looks down with a cough, scuffing her boot on the pavement. “Uh, a woman actually,” she says so quickly Serena almost misses it, glances up through the messy curtain of her fringe.

“Oh,” Serena says lamely, can’t seem to grapple any other words into order at the revelation. “Right. Good. Well, I, uh, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” With a wan smile, she ducks into her car, only feels like she can breath again when she’s behind the wheel.

\--- 

“You, uh, you’ve got a bit of flour…” Serena says, her voice sounding distant and strange. Bernie just stands very still, barely breathing as Serena raises a hand between them, brushing at the smudge of white powder along Bernie’s cheekbone with the pad of her thumb. 

_Her skin is so soft_ , Serena thinks, her thumb still moving though the flour is long gone. Bernie’s eyes flutter shut at the caress, long lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and her mouth parts slightly. The realization that she’s beautiful hits Serena out of nowhere, makes her breath catch in her chest. Bernie opens her eyes at the sound, gaze soft and inviting, and Serena opens her mouth, not sure exactly what she’s going to say.

Whatever it is, she doesn’t have a chance, the words stolen by Bernie’s lips against her own, soft and warm and perfect. Serena melts into the kiss with a whimper, tangles her fingers in that hair she’s been wondering about for months. It’s just as heavenly as in her imagination.

Bernie’s tongue slips into her mouth, insistent and maddening, teasing as she explores Serena’s mouth until she’s putty in Bernie’s arms. She ends up pressed back against the edge of the bench, Bernie’s lean body pinning her in place. A strong thigh slips between her legs and Serena breaks the kiss with a gasp, panting as Bernie takes the opportunity to detour along her jaw, kissing and nibbling her way down Serena’s neck. 

Stopping never even crosses her mind. How can she stop something that feels this good?

Every nerve ending comes to life under Bernie’s wandering hands as they map the curves of Serena’s body, slip beneath her blouse to find the soft skin of her lower back, raising goosebump in their wake. She grinds helplessly against Bernie’s thigh, using her grip on her hair to pull her down into another delicious, overwhelming kiss.

Strong hands grip her hips and Serena’s yelp at being suddenly hoisted up to sit on the flour covered bench trails off into a moan as Bernie steps between her legs, the heat in her eyes making Serena throb.

“Don’t worry, Serena,” Bernie murmurs, returning to the task of exploring every millimeter of Serena’s neck with her mouth. “I’m going to take _such_ good care of you…”

Cool air licks across Serena’s skin, Bernie’s nimble fingers making quick work of the buttons on her blouse, pushing it off Serena’s shoulders to puddle around her wrists.

“Oh, Serena.” Bernie’s eyes are practically black, full of wonder as she kisses her way down over Serena’s sternum, between her lace clad breasts. Her stomach twitches and tenses beneath the soft caress and Bernie glances up with a mischievous smirk.

She feels the button of her trousers pop open, holds her breath in anticipation as Bernie lowers her head again, her eyes fluttering shut as the kisses move lower and lower…

Serena jerks awake with a start, tangled in the bed sheets, her body thrumming. Hovering in that liminal space between sleep and wakefulness, she’s only aware of the heat pulsing through her, the throbbing between her thighs. 

Eyes still closed, she pushes a hand beneath her knickers, finds herself slick and sensitive, all ready moments away from coming. A few firm strokes of her fingers, and she turns her head to muffle her groans in the pillow, body jerking and shuddering with pleasure.

With the fading endorphins comes wakefulness. Serena blinks up at the ceiling, breathing harsh, damp fingers resting against the swell of her abdomen. Snippets of the dream come back to her: slow, searching kisses; insistent hands on her body; dark eyes that could swallow her whole; messy golden hair trailing across her skin.

Her stomach flips even as renewed heat floods her.

Bernie. She had a sex dream about Bernie. She gave herself a fairly spectacular orgasm thinking about _Bernie_.

Serena rolls over with a pained whimper, pulling the duvet up over her head.

_It was just a dream_ , she tells herself sternly. _It doesn’t mean anything._

But the words ring hollow, even in her own mind, and she lays awake until dawn starts to lighten the sky wondering how on earth she’s going to be able to face Bernie.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done!!! I'm sorry for how stupidly late this is, but life has been intense. Special thanks to Beth, without whose kind pestering this wouldn't have gotten done <3

“Come on, Campbell,” Serena says to her steering wheel. “You can do this.”

Another minute passes. She’s still seated firmly in her idling car. 

“You’re being ridiculous. Just get out of the bloody car!”

That seems to finally do it, at least gets the door open, her feet on the pavement. Her momentum grinds to a sudden halt at the sight of Bernie leaning outside the door. She seems to have gotten impossibly more beautiful overnight, and Serena can’t help but drink in the sight of her messy golden hair, her lean body, and _god,_ have her legs always been that long?

Serena forces herself to take a steadying breath, hopes that maybe Bernie hasn’t noticed her, will head inside before Serena gets there. And then Bernie raises her hand in a little wave, smiling wide enough Serena can see it across the car park. 

_Damn_.

“Thought you might need the caffeine,” Bernie says when she approaches, holding a steaming cup out toward Serena. “You like it strong and hot, right?”

A shot of panicked adrenaline spikes through her, convinced that somehow Bernie can read on her face how little sleep she’s had and exactly what was keeping her up last night. She laughs a little, high and forced, as she takes the cup. 

“Why, uh, why is that?” She takes a sip to stop herself saying anything incriminating, wincing as the scalding liquid burns the tip of her tongue.

“Pastry day, remember? Lucy said we all need to be on top of our game.” Bernie’s looking at her like she’s grown a second head and the little voice in Serena’s mind is yelling for her to _just act normal!_

“Right. We should probably crack on then,” Serena says abruptly. Turning on her heel, she walks into the classroom, leaving a befuddled Bernie in her wake. 

Serena focuses on drinking her coffee as the class gathers around the front bench, pointedly ignoring the increasingly concerned gaze she can _feel_ coming from next to her. She feels ridiculous, like some schoolgirl with a crush, but every time she glances at Bernie all she can think of is strong, slender hands on her body, a devilish grin looking up from between her legs. 

It’s embarrassing, confusing, damnably distracting, and it seems that now the Pandora’s box has been opened, she can no longer compartmentalize whatever it is she feels for Bernie.

Lucy claps her hands to get everyone’s attention and Serena’s more than glad of the distraction, turns to face the front intently, every inch the star student.

“All right everyone, it’s the day you’ve all been waiting for - pastry day! And we’re not going to make just any pastry.” She pauses for dramatic effect, eyes bright with excitement. “We’re going to make _croissants_!”

The group _oohs_ and _ahhs_ , infected by Lucy’s bubbly enthusiasm. Serena leans close to whisper something cutting and sarcastic in Bernie’s ear out of habit, jerking back when she catches the sweet scent of her and with it vivid flashes of last night’s imaginings. 

“We’ll be making one perfectly flaky laminated pastry dough and then turn that into both croissants and pain au chocolate.” Serena feels Bernie look her way at that, keeps her eyes resolutely forward. “And no store bought chocolate batons for us! We’ll be creating our own, giving us exciting opportunities to play with flavor.”

“Now,” Lucy says, “pastry is much more complicated than what we’ve done so far, and it may not be for everyone. Given that and our shorter class time today, we’re going to work in pairs. So! Grab a partner and let’s get baking!”

Serena stands frozen in indecision. She can feel Bernie at her side, trying to make eye contact. But she can also see Rodney turn her way, focusing on her and noting her lack of partner with a growing leer on his face. 

_Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible?_ she thinks a little desperately. _At least I know I won’t have any erotic dreams about Rodney_. 

A slender arm linking with her own takes the decision out of her hands. Serena looks up in surprise at Bernie’s smiling face, the two of them pressed close enough that Serena can feel the warmth of her against her arm. Heat floods her cheeks and Bernie’s expression falters a bit. 

“Isn’t this what y-, what Henrik wants?” she asks, a little hesitant in the face of Serena’s stunned reaction. “The two of us together?”

The words send a spike of adrenaline through Serena; heart hammering in her chest she yanks her arm away, too overwhelmed by Bernie’s nearness, doesn't even notice the brief flash of hurt in Bernie’s expression.

“ _Working_ together,” Serena says, only realizes just how loudly it came out when others in the class turn to look at them. She rubs her sweaty palms on her trousers with a pained smile. “Yes, ah, of course. I think we’d best get going.”

Serena knows that she's scared Bernie off a bit with her odd behavior, can practically feel the distance between them as they set to work. There's no banter, no conversation, and the awkwardness makes her skin crawl.

They decide to split the responsibilities and Serena sets to getting the pastry started while Bernie reads through the directions on the chocolate batons. The steps are just complex enough that Serena is able to lose herself in them, feels her mind settle, some of her jitters leeching away. 

As her anxiety eases, so does the stilted atmosphere between them. They start to work together like they would in theater - ceding tasks to one another for maximum efficiency. Bernie sets to rolling out the pastry dough while Serena makes the perfectly square sheet of butter to go inside it.

When she comes back from putting the pastry in to chill, Bernie is working intently over a double boiler, stirring the dark glossy melted chocolate. She glances up as Serena reaches her side, reaches for a spoon.

"What do you think?" Bernie dips the spoon in the chocolate mixture and holds it out toward Serena, a hand cupped beneath to prevent any drips. It's a thoughtless, intimate gesture, and Serena's heart flips in her chest a bit as she leans forward.

Wrapping her lips around the spoon, Serena thinks she sees something flare bright in Bernie's eyes, but then her own slide shut in involuntary pleasure as an incredible taste fills her mouth. Perfectly bitter chocolate blends with the familiar deep berry notes of shiraz, sweet, earthy and utterly wonderful.

"Bernie," Serena says, a bit awed. "That is _incredible_. What on earth made you think to add wine to the chocolate?"

Pink stains the apples of Bernie's cheeks, her eyes darting away as she ducks her head, and Serena can barely resist the sudden urge to kiss her.

"I know you like it," is all Bernie replies, shrugging her shoulders. Warmth fills Serena's chest, climbs the back of her neck. The knowledge that even with all their acrimony at work Bernie has paid attention to what Serena enjoys, is thoughtful enough to cater to her likes, leaves her on shaky ground, uncertain how to respond.

The atmosphere shifts after that, a new tension in the air that wasn't there before. They still work together seamlessly, but the safe cushion of distance between them evaporates. Without thinking, Serena lets her hand linger against Bernie's lower back when she crosses the bench to get the flour, their fingers brushing at every step. 

Each touch could easily written off as accidental if it weren't for the crackle of electricity that accompanies them, the way their eyes meet and hold longer than is explainable. For the first time Serena wonders if maybe she isn't the only one discovering these feelings, a delicate bubble of hope swelling inside her.

The pastries are beautiful, golden and flaky, and smell positively mouth watering when Serena pulls them from the oven. Bernie reaches for a croissant as soon as Serena slides it from the baking sheet, jerking back her hand with a hiss of pain, popping a scalded fingertip into her mouth.

Only slightly more patient, the pain au chocolate is still warm when Serena tears it in half, filled with a sense of pride at the delicate laminations, the still liquid chocolate oozing from the center. Handing one half to Bernie, she bites into the other, It's perfect, buttery and sweet with a hint of wine, and Serena can't restrain her moan of pleasure at the decadence of it all.

Bernie is staring at her, eyes wide and dark, intent enough that Serena feels a little self conscious.

"What? What's wrong?"

She sees the shadow of Bernie's throat move as she swallows hard. "You, ah, you've got, just..."

Before Serena can move, Bernie is reaching out, slender fingers brushing the edge of Serena's jaw, and Serena has to fight to keep her eyes open, to not press further into the touch. Bernie's thumb catches at the corner of her mouth, slides along her bottom lip, tugging it just slightly as Serena holds her breath, heart hammering wildly in her chest.

All too soon Bernie pulls her hand back, holds her thumb up for Serena to see the smudge on it. "Chocolate," Bernie says, stating the obvious. She seems to hesitate a moment, then pops the digit into her mouth, the sight of her sucking the chocolate from her skin going directly between Serena's legs. Her tongue darts out to where Bernie touched, finding the lingering sweetness at the corner of her mouth, sees the way Bernie's eyes track the motion.

Lucy calls them all up to congratulate them on their hard work, and to mention the class on breads coming up the following month. Many of the ladies exchange numbers, make promises to meet for tea, all of them studiously ignoring a frowning Rodney.

As they pack up their pastries, Serena finds herself a bit sad that it's over. For all that she dreaded it, the time spent with Bernie has been wonderful. She thinks she's found a friend, but at the back of her mind niggles the fear that it'll all disappear come Monday, that the closeness they've found won't survive the return to Holby.

"I was thinking," she says, not looking up from the box she's carefully filling with croissants. "It might be nice to bake something to take in to the ward tomorrow, show Mr Hanssen that some good has come from his investment. Would, would you maybe like to come over and, ah, help. Me, that is. With the baking."

Cursing herself for a fool, she hazards a glance from the corner of her eye. Unexpectedly, Bernie looks stunned but pleased, her expression softer than Serena's ever seen it.

"I'd like that," Bernie says, an uneven smile quirking her lips.

"Good!" Her cheeks stretch in a wide smile for a moment before she can rein it in. Serena tries to modulate her voice, the restrain some of the excitement that prickles through her. "That, that's good."

\---

If someone had told Serena a week ago that she'd be spending an afternoon in her kitchen baking biscuits with Bernie Wolfe of all people, she might’ve pulled something laughing. As it is, a part of her still can't believe she extended the invitation, and that Bernie accepted.

She points to where Bernie can leave her coat and shoes, leads her into the kitchen. Bernie looks around with a low whistle.

"I think this is bigger than my hotel room."

"Not exactly the penthouse, eh?" Serena chuckles, reaching for the canister of flour on the counter. "It actually wasn't my idea. Edward thought that if we put in an elaborate kitchen, I'd be overwhelmed with the urge to have dinner on the table every night." Bernie's disapproving grumble at that makes her smile. "At least I can heat up a mean leftover takeaway."

"It was the same with Marcus," Bernie says, leaning her hip against the bench. "As if going on tour and having children left me time to learn to cook. I told him once that I'd be happy to be responsible for dinner, so long as he wanted to eat MREs."

"I'll bet that changed his mind."

"Never asked again after that," Bernie says, lips quirked in a lopsided smirk that Serena finds far more attractive than she should.

Clearing her throat, she bustles about the kitchen, pulling out the folder of recipes they'd been given in class. 

I was thinking millionaire’s shortbread and the ginger biscuits would be easiest to transport." She pulls the appropriate pages out, skimming over the ingredient lists. "If you take charge of the spices, I'll handle the decorating. Deal?"

"Deal." 

The warm companionship from earlier is still there, and they chat like the oldest of friends as they make the strong, spicy dough and roll it out on the bench. Being with someone like this, laughing and joking together, swapping stories of their childhoods and early careers, is the kind of joy Serena feared she'd never find in life. She's never been one who found true friendships easy to cultivate and maintain, has only a couple of people in her life who truly earn the title. She thinks Bernie could easily take a place on that list, thinks they could be the very best of friends.

Except that every time she glances at Bernie, sees the sunlight make her tousled hair look like spun gold, the wicked sparkle in her dark eyes, the wry twitch of her lips, thoughts of friendship are pushed aside by imaginings of kissing her, running her fingers through that hair, pressing her lean body back against the counter. _You're like a hormonal teenager_ , she chastises herself, tries to be happy for the new comfort they've found instead of entertaining impossible thoughts of more.

Ginger biscuits cooling, they move on to the next recipe, Bernie washing up the tools they need while Serena gets more butter from where it's been warming on the counter.

“Why don’t you get the dough together, while I start the caramel. Seems safer that way,” she adds with a wink, getting a bark of laughter in return that leaves her feeling warm and pleased as she turns to dig in the pantry. She hears the metallic clang of measuring cups hitting the side of the bowl, the lock on the mixer clicking into place.

“Oh, and make sure you start it slow so you don’t-“

“ _Shit_!”

A cloud of white envelops the mixer, flour flung into the air by the speed of the machine. In the center of it stands Bernie with the most adorably befuddled look on her face and a fine layer of flour covering just about every inch of her. 

Serena claps a hand to her mouth, tries to force down the laugh that burbles up in her chest, breaks free at Bernie’s offended pout. 

“Oh, Major,” Serena says with an affectionate sigh, stepping close to Bernie. “What am I going to do with you?”

Without thinking, she reaches up to brush flour from Bernie’s cheek, hesitating at the softness of her skin against her fingertips. A sensation of déjà vu washes over her, and the details of her dream return in a rush, make her breath catch. Bernie stands so still, her gaze opaque and unreadable, the motes of flour filtering through the air around her catching the sun, sparking like fairy dust. 

Serena can’t seem to stop herself, lets her fingers ghost lightly over Bernie’s cheekbone, pushes aside the wisps of blonde fringe that have fallen in front of her eyes, dislodging another puff of flour. Her gaze drops to Bernie’s lips - thin, slightly parted, oh so soft looking - as if drawn there by a magnet. 

And then she realizes that Bernie's eyes are trained on her own mouth, her pupils blown wide. What's left of Serena's resolve shatters and she's leaning forward before she even consciously knows what's happening.

Serena discovers that Bernie's lips aren't as soft as they look - they're softer. Warm and gentle and a perfect fit against her own, a hint of warm spice lingering from when Bernie snatched one of the biscuits fresh from the tray, claiming 'it didn't pass quality control.' She thinks she may never be able to eat ginger biscuits again without thinking of kissing Bernie Wolfe.

It's that thought that brings her to her senses, makes her pull back when all she really wants to do is keep kissing Bernie until the world falls down around them.

With distance comes clarity, a flutter of panic filling her chest, the fear that she's ruined it all overwhelming her. A desperate apology finds its way to her lips.

"I'm so sor-"

Bernie lunges forward, and this time the kiss is anything but chaste. Serena whimpers as Bernie's tongue teases into her mouth, replacing the taste of spice with something far more addicting. Her hands somehow find their way to Bernie's hair, fingers tangling in silken strands as they taste and explore, losing themselves in each other. 

When they finally break apart, they're both a little breathless and Serena can't even think about holding back the smile from her face, one she sees mirrored on Bernie's, faint traces of Serena's lipstick smudged around her lips.

"I've wanted to do that since my first day at Holby," Bernie says, her voice lower than normal, rich and dark, pooling like warm chocolate in Serena's belly.

"Why didn't you?" Serena asks, idly twisting a golden curl around her finger.

"It's not exactly a proper greeting upon meeting a coworker." Bernie yelps a bit as Serena tugs the lock of hair. "As far I knew, you were straight. And..." Uncertainty creeps in at the edges of her gaze, her shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "I didn't think you liked me very much."

Serena winces at that, can see her own behavior cast in a far different light. She brushes a bit of flour from Bernie's forehead, trails her fingers down along the side of her face.

"It would seem that the opposite is true." She takes a deep breath, tamps down the nervous butterflies in her stomach. "I like you quite a bit, more than I knew what to do with, if I'm honest."

"So, all the sniping and micromanaging was..."

"A poor reaction on my part, to something I never would've expected." She smiles, brushing her thumb against the small mole on Bernie's chin. "Can you forgive me for being a stubborn fool?"

Bernie leans in, nuzzling her nose against Serena's before pressing their lips together. "I think I can be convinced," she whispers against her mouth.

"And I can be very convincing," Serena purrs.

This time she knows exactly what she's doing, kisses Bernie slow and deep, nipping at her bottom lip before sliding her tongue across it, swallowing the delicious growl that rises in Bernie's throat. Strong hands slide across the silk of her blouse, trail goosebumps in their wake as they trace the line of her spine. Serena feels the edge of the bench dig into her hips, pinned in place by Bernie's warm body.

“Think we’ve managed that amicable working relationship Henrik was after?” Bernie asks, sliding a hand under Serena’s top, fingers slightly cool against her heated skin. Serena grins wickedly, nipping her way along the line of Bernie’s jaw.

“We’ve made an excellent start.” Her tongue flicks against Bernie’s earlobe, eliciting the most delightful shiver. “But I think there are a few more...exercises we could explore, don’t you? In the interest of solidifying our new _partnership._ ”

“I’m happy to take one for the team. Hopefully more than one,” Bernie says with a wink.

Serena’s happy laugh is muffled by Bernie’s kiss, as the biscuits lay forgotten on the cooling rack.


End file.
